


A Slippery Slope

by My_Alter_Ego



Category: White Collar
Genre: Drugging, M/M, Obsessions, Stalking, Undercover Missions
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-26
Updated: 2015-01-26
Packaged: 2018-03-09 03:17:35
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,159
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3234284
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/My_Alter_Ego/pseuds/My_Alter_Ego
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Neal Caffrey has an unhealthy compulsion to stalk Peter Burke. It doesn't end well for him, or just maybe it does.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Slippery Slope

**Author's Note:**

> This story begins, initially, pre-series, but then continues through subsequent seasons.

 

       “Are you friggin’ crazy, Neal?”

     Mozzie was beyond exasperated with his young protégé. He ran his hands through his non-existent hair as he snorted out his displeasure. The infuriating kid just gave him that wide-eyed, naïve look and smiled that sweet little smile that made Mozzie relent just a tad in his tirade.

     “For the life of me, I just can’t understand your motivation. Why are you so obsessed with that FBI Suit whom, I might add, is also so obsessed with you! This definitely will not end well. Do you even have any sense of self-preservation, Neal? Do you?” Mozzie's tone was escalating even though he had vowed to try to be the voice of reason, approaching Neal with a logical argument.

     “Mozzie, there’s nothing going on here at the moment. I just want to seek out a bit of entertainment until you line up all of our ducks here for the job.” Neal’s tone was soft but definitely wheedling.

     “Here” was a tiny apartment in Bern, Switzerland. The mark was a banker who had access to some very lucrative accounts that Mozzie and Neal wanted to liquidate when the time was right. However, as Neal had alluded, not all of the parts of the moving puzzle were yet in place. Mozzie had learned the art of “patience.” It seemed that Neal was still in the process of learning impulse control. Mozzie tried, he really did, to mentor and mold this kid, who had so much potential, but sometimes he felt as if he were dealing with a five-year-old who wanted instant gratification, consequences be damned.

     “Look,” Mozzie tried a new tact, “if you need a reason to be out and about, why don’t you go look for Kate?”

     Neal managed a crestfallen, sad puppy expression. “Kate is where she wants to be right now, and that’s with Keller, Moz. She just didn’t get that I had to cozy up to Marcus for the sake of the job. It doesn’t mean anything, but she just didn’t want to hear it.”

     “Maybe……” Mozzie said slowly, “she wasn’t really sure that your whole peccadillo with this middle-aged banker was an act. Maybe she saw this as history repeating itself. After all, she had a ringside seat when you seemed head-over-heels for Ramone in Spain. And now you keep singing the praises of this Agent Burke as if he’s some coveted Lothario. What is it about you and middle-aged men? I am thinking ‘Daddy issues?’”

     “That thing with Ramone was before Kate and I fell in love, Moz. Lovers shouldn’t hold their pasts against each other,” Neal huffed.

     “Well, if it’s truly over with her, there are lots of other pretty young things out there, both male and female, who wouldn’t be adverse to your attention.” Neal was beyond heartbreakingly handsome, and he would certainly appeal to either side of the sexual spectrum. But all that was a moot point right now, and Mozzie knew that any arguing of the issue was futile. Neal wanted what he wanted, and when he had made up his mind, there was no discouraging him.

     “It’s not truly ‘over,’ with Kate, Moz. She’ll eventually see Keller for the sleazy psycho that he is and come back.” Neal nodded his head adamantly. “In the meantime, I just need a bit of a distraction. Stalking Peter Burke is just what the doctor ordered!”

     After a minute of quiet introspection, Mozzie asked softly, “Just out of idle curiosity, Neal, how come you’ve never put the moves on me? I’m middle-aged and outrageously intelligent, and I know that ‘smart’ is a definite turn-on for you.”

     Neal just cocked his head to the side and grinned impishly. “Aw, Moz, you know I love ya!” was said fondly as he planted a wet, smacking kiss to the top of his guru’s baldhead. “But it’s the enticing lure of the forbidden that is just so damn sexy!”

 

**********

     Peter Burke luxuriated in the hot, pulsating jets of water from the much-needed shower. He had been sitting almost all day at an Art Crimes seminar in Washington, DC, and his back was stiff from not moving for almost eight hours. He hadn’t even wanted to come, but he couldn’t just ignore the personal invitation from his old supervisor, Phillip Kramer. Peter also realized that his first-class accommodations here at the Watergate Hotel were a perk not afforded to any other agents from out of town.

     He supposed that he should be grateful that Kramer had singled him out as special, but at times like this, it also felt as if this was just another way of Kramer exerting and flaunting his superiority over his “Petey.” God, but Peter hated the condescending way Kramer viewed him. One would have thought that placing almost 200 miles of distance between them would suffice to break the hold. Thankfully, it was only a two-day conference, and tomorrow night he would be back to the comfortable parameters of his own stomping grounds in New York City, and his ever-patient wife.

     Peter finally shut the shower off. He was not a plush bathrobe kind of guy, so as he stepped from the shower, he ignored the thick terrycloth garment hanging on the back of the door. Instead, Peter chose to simply grab a towel and wrap it around his mid-section as he left the steamy bathroom. Plodding barefoot into the room, he suddenly jerked himself erect and stared with uncomprehending eyes at what, or more appropriately, “who” was slouched nonchalantly in the over-sized chair in the room.

     “You!” Peter snarled maliciously at the intruder.

     “Yup, it’s me,” the young man said softly. He was dressed casually in snug black pants and an open-neck blue shirt. There was an infuriatingly smug grin on his face.

     Peter looked frantically around at the dresser tops in the room for his phone, badge, gun and handcuffs. He couldn’t locate them where he had last put them, or, actually, anywhere in the room.

     “Looking for the tools of your trade, Peter?” the intruder asked sweetly. “All the accoutrements of your profession are locked up securely in the room safe. I wouldn’t want any unforeseen accidents to happen. That would most likely result in lots of extraneous and tedious paperwork for you, Agent Burke. I think that our time together can be better spent. And just so you don’t get caught unawares down the road,” the young punk added as an afterthought, “there will be a record of a call made from your room phone to a male escort service requesting a companion for the evening. The charge will appear on your next credit card statement.” Peter’s nemesis then smiled serenely.

   Peter growled—he actually growled—as he lunged for Caffrey. He grabbed the kid’s right wrist, levering him up from the chair in one quick twist, and then propelled his arm up behind his back in a vice-like grip. Peter’s left arm then secured itself securely across Neal’s lean and lithe torso as he pulled him firmly to his own chest. The effort took the young man by surprise, but he went with the motion, never fighting Peter. Actually, the little criminal seemed to relax as he laid his head back against the agent’s shoulder, affording Peter a view of his long, slender neck. Peter could smell the faint traces of some exotic scent mixed with Caffrey’s own essence. It was definitely not unpleasant, but, in the heat of the moment, the agent tried to ignore what his senses could not.

     Somehow, during these acrobatics, Peter’s towel had fallen from his hips. Neal took advantage of the situation by pushing back even closer to his captor and rubbing his ass tantalizingly against Peter’s crotch. As if by sheer survival instinct, Peter hastily flung Neal away from him where he landed with a bounce onto the bed. Not about to let his quarry get away, Peter climbed onto the bed as well and loomed over his stalker.

     “Is this your idea of surrendering to the FBI, Neal?” Peter rasped out.

     “Well, I am a wanted man, Peter,” Neal purred. “The question is, do _you_ want me?” There was no mistaking his innuendo.

     “I’m a married man, you little shit! Just what do you think that you’ll accomplish by this outrageous stunt?” Peter demanded.

     “I’d be willing to share, Peter. Do you think Elizabeth would mind?”

     At the mention of his wife’s name being dragged into this disgusting conversation, Peter saw red. Without conscious thought, he viciously backhanded Neal across the face. The kid’s head snapped back and a small trickle of blood began to ooze from a cut lip. Peter shrank back, aghast at his own actions. He was not a violent man by nature. Allowing criminals to push his buttons only afforded them the upper hand. He tensed, waiting for anything that Caffrey might do in retaliation.

     The young man just shook his head slightly and pushed himself up on his elbows to look Peter in the eye. “You like it rough, Peter? You can mess me up a little if that’s what turns you on.”

     Then the conman slithered slowly towards Peter and touched his lips to the agent’s in a soft kiss that became completely erotic when Neal’s tongue invaded his mouth. Neal tasted of toothpaste with the salty tang of blood mixed in. Peter pushed him back and away, but the kid held on and pulled Peter down on top of him. Peter felt the hard body under him and sensed Neal’s erection build. And damn, if Peter wasn’t turned on as well, which was pretty hard to ignore when he wasn’t wearing a stitch of clothing between him and this really pretty young man beneath him.

     Neal’s hands were traveling up Peter’s back sensuously. “C’mon, Peter, it’s obvious that you want me. Now you can have me. Nobody ever needs to know,” he coaxed earnestly. He said these things in a breathy whisper near Peter’s ear as he nibbled on the sensitive area below.

     “Why, Neal? Why me? What’s your real agenda—are you setting me up for a fall to get me off your back?” the agent asked at last when he was able to lift his head and gaze into a pair of Caribbean blue eyes framed by a thick fringe of dark lashes.

     The conman laughed delightedly. “You can be on my back, if you prefer a different position, Agent Burke.”

     When Peter just groaned in frustration, Neal took pity on him and sobered. “What’s so difficult to fathom, Peter? Is it so hard to imagine that I’m attracted to you?”

     “Yeah, it is,” Peter answered honestly. “There’s nothing special about me except for the adjective ‘Special,’ as in ‘Special’ Agent Peter Burke. And, besides, I thought that you had a girlfriend.”

     Neal looked forlorn. With an arched eyebrow, he explained that “said girlfriend” had taken off for places unknown, and that, if truth were told, part of her snit revolved around Neal’s obsession with Peter.

     “So why _are_ you ‘obsessed,’ Neal?” the agent was totally confused and really wanted to know Neal’s motives.

     “Peter,” the conman began patiently, “you are totally attractive to me in a rugged kind of way. But what is really alluring is your intelligence. You’re the only person who has been able to keep up with me, and a savvy, craggy pursuer is a real aphrodisiac, let me tell you!”

     “You’re a true enigma, Caffrey, or you’re just downright insane,” Peter responded.

     “Listen kiddo, let’s get some things straight,” Peter continued, but then groaned when the word “straight” got a cynical smile from Caffrey. Right about now he looked like the cat that had swallowed the canary.

     “Neal! Pay attention here,” he demanded. “It’s not too late for you to fix things. Right now the only thing that the Bureau can actually prove and make stick is the Atlantic bond forgery. Get yourself a deal, do a few years, and get off the criminal trajectory that you are currently on. It is only going to get worse the longer that you keep going the way that you are. It’s time to face the music and get your life in order instead of slinking around in hotel rooms trying to seduce lawmen.”

     “It’s not that simple, Peter,” Neal looked surprisingly sincere. “Other people depend on me and I owe them.”

     Peter knew about Kate Moreau, but he was not aware that Neal worked with a crew.

     “Criminals turn on other criminals all the time, Neal, to save themselves. Are you scared that there will be retribution? I can protect you; even get you into witness protection, if it comes to that.” This conversation was taking a weird turn, but Peter was willing to follow it through now that he seemed to have the young conman’s complete attention.

     “It’s not like that, Peter. I can’t turn on a friend who has never been anything but good to me. I won’t do that—ever—so don’t even go there.”

     Peter thought back to the glaring absence of any information that they had on this kid before his eighteenth birthday when he suddenly appeared out of thin air. What dark secrets lurked in his past that had transformed him into a confused mélange of id and ego, who took ridiculous risks, and who sometimes seemed to put his survival instinct on the back burner? However, to his credit, he did seem to have a conscience somewhere in that dark head of his because he never, ever resorted to violence or mayhem in his escapades. To the contrary, most of his marks spoke wistfully and almost fondly about the delinquent barely in his twenties who had stolen their property or swindled them.

     Peter sighed and made a decision that seemed incomprehensible, even to him.

     “Look, kid, I will be back in New York tomorrow. I want you to leave here and think about your future. Think about just how bleak that is going to be if you don’t stop doing what you are doing. If you want my attention and respect, you’ll surrender yourself into my custody when I return to the White Collar office in New York. We will never speak of what took place today. You have my word on that.”

     Peter stared into those mesmerizing blue eyes once again and willed this messed up young man to understand that Peter’s offer was a gift, which would be extended only once.

     It was Neal who first broke eye contact and looked away. “You could have just said that you don’t swing that way, but then I think that we’d both know that you were lying. And you don’t lie, Peter. That much I’m sure of about you.” The young man slowly unfolded from the bed and headed for the door of the room that led into the hallway.

     “It could have been good, Peter, really good. I would have made sure of that.” The soft click of the door closing behind him was now the only sound in the room.

 

**********

          Of course, Caffrey was a no-show when Peter returned to New York. The capers continued throughout Europe and Peter was just happy that Neal was Interpol’s problem right now. Occasionally, a transatlantic call would come in the middle of the night to his cell phone, and Neal would chatter away as if they were old friends, never once alluding to the ill-fated tryst in DC. From time to time, small gifts from all parts of the globe would appear for himself as well as Elizabeth. It drove Peter to distraction. His wife began snickering whenever Peter would go off on a rant about his nemesis.

     “Oh come on, Peter, he’s flirting with you and it’s adorable. You’ll get him eventually, but I think that once you do, you’re going to really miss his clever antics.”

     Elizabeth didn’t know how close to the truth her statement was.

     Of course, Peter did catch him, but it didn’t feel sporting to use his girlfriend as a lure. He actually felt bad about the circumstances, especially when a curmudgeon of a judge threw the book at the kid, confining him to a maximum-security prison for four long years. Peter worried incessantly that his pretty face and sculpted body would lead to ungodly torture. He kept in touch with the warden of the facility from the first day of the captivity.

     “The other prisoners leave him alone, Agent Burke,” the warden reassured him. “I’ve been doing this job long enough to know that there is protection money in play, although we’ll most likely never be able to find out who’s financing it.”

     This gave Peter a small measure of comfort, that is, until Caffrey walked out of the facility just months before his sentence was complete. Peter just shook his head in frustration—eventually recognizing the same impulsive, messed up, unfathomable psyche as he returned Caffrey to prison once again. What a waste of intelligence and talent!

 

**********

     Peter hemmed and hawed trying to make a decision regarding Neal’s offer to work as his CI. Elizabeth said it was a no-brainer. When Peter stared at her quizzically, she calmly informed him that the last four years he had been less than challenged by his job.

     “You doggedly go to work each morning, but it no longer seems as if your heart’s really in it anymore. You look bored, tired, and frustrated. You used to love matching wits with Neal. He was a challenge and you relished it. Now, you have the chance for the two of you to combine your remarkable talents and get lots of bad guys. They will not stand a chance with the pair of you on the cases. Having Neal as a playmate might be just the thing to perk you up, Hon.”

     Peter somehow wondered if his wife knew how dangerously prophetic her words might be. He tried to dodge the issue.

     “Most criminals are just nasty morons with no flair or class whatsoever. There aren’t many who could hold a candle to Neal’s modus operandi, or his style, for that matter. So, yes, I suppose that I have been spoiled by the best. But, Hon, I’m just not sure that I can trust him. What if he just takes off after Kate one day and I’ll look like a fool at the Bureau?”

     Elizabeth just quirked an eyebrow at him, the same expression that she leveled at Neal when he showed up on their doorstep the second day that he was out of prison. Of course, Neal worked his magic as time went on, and she fell a little bit in love with him, as did almost everyone who was around him. However, the confidential informant never once made inappropriate overtures to either Peter or Elizabeth, even though Elizabeth flirted with him outrageously.

     At Peter’s confused expression every time that it happened, El emphatically stated, “It’s just that he’s so damn pretty and sweet. I sometimes think that I’m in love. And I think that you are, too, Peter. Don’t deny it. I see the way that you look at him. I’m just saying, there’s undoubtedly potential there.”

     However, Neal continued to keep an arm’s distance between Peter and himself, with the past never once mentioned. And Peter made sure never to touch Neal, that is, until one snowy day at an airplane hangar when Neal’s world went up in flames. Then Peter unashamedly held Neal’s body in his protective embrace and rocked him compulsively.

     It took quite a while for Neal to regain his equilibrium after that debacle. Peter wondered if he really had, or was simply putting on a good show of being settled and resigned. As the agent watched the young man’s struggles, he lost a bit more of his heart and realized that yes, he _had_ come to love this tragic figure who needed all the love that he could get. “But,” he reminded himself, “there is platonic love and then there is lustful love.” He just wasn’t sure where he stood right now; it was a truly slippery slope, to be sure.

     Eventually, Neal was sent undercover for stings once again. The latest one involved an obnoxious, nouveau riche snob, Joseph Barrington, who was acquiring art from the nefarious underground of New York criminals. After doing an in-depth background check on the guy, the agents uncovered an unsettling fact. Barrington had a perverted predilection for good-looking young men. All of the high-class escort agencies, however, had stopped sending their personnel to service him after the young studs returned bearing horrendous injuries inflicted by this depraved sociopath. Some had actually required hospitalization for their wounds. Peter managed to get a few of these escorts to talk to him with the promise that everything was off the record. He worked in White Collar, not Vice, so he assured them that there would be no repercussions for them.

     “That guy is one sick puppy,” a young man told him. “I’ve got the scars to prove it!”

     Another claimed that he had bled for days from his rectum after a night of apparent debauchery and torture that he couldn’t remember. “I think the fucking son of a bitch roofied me,” he confided to Peter.

     Peter didn’t want Neal anywhere near this operation. However, the powers that be above him insisted that this case was a priority since some influential institutions with clout were putting pressure on the FBI to get the job done. So, Neal became the bait.

     As instructed, the conman had managed to make an acquaintance with the mark, after being sent in to cruise his favorite environs, a ritzy, upscale bar/lounge in upper Manhattan. Neal wooed him slowly, until Barrington suggested that Neal should be his guest for dinner the next evening in his 5th Avenue penthouse apartment. That invitation would afford Neal the opportunity to spot the stolen art, thus giving the FBI the go-ahead for a subpoena to enter the premises, seize the illegally obtained masterpieces, and make an arrest. Neal had a tiny microphone hidden in the top button of his shirt and a phrase, “this is exquisite,” if he felt in danger at anytime. The FBI would come barreling in if that happened, whether they had a subpoena or not.

     Peter found himself really on edge about this particular sting. His gut told him that it boded too much danger for his CI. The question was how to get out of this dilemma, because Hughes was literally champing at the bit for the Bureau to close this high–profile case. He had no reluctance in putting Neal’s safety on the line. So, right before the scheduled rendezvous, Peter heeded his nervous feelings and pulled Neal aside.

     “Neal, you don’t have to do this if you’re not comfortable. Somehow, I will square it with Hughes. It will in no way affect your status with the arrangement that you have with the Bureau,” he said earnestly.

     Neal huffed out a cynical little laugh. “Don’t delude yourself, Peter. The least little thing can tip the balance when it comes to my status. But no worries; I can be whatever you want me to be…...or not be.” With that said, he gave a sad little smile and strode purposely from Peter’s office and down the stairs.

     So, later that night Peter sat fidgeting in the van while listening attentively to Neal’s microphone. A SWAT team whiled away their time stationed down the block, just in case things went south. The proposed dinner evening started out benignly enough with drinks first. Not surprisingly, Barrington could not stop himself from boasting about the cost of the bottle of imported French wine that he was pouring. The two men made small talk about art and various museums and the opera until Neal deftly steered the conversation in a different direction. He deferentially asked for a tour of the huge apartment before dinner. His host brushed off the request saying that there would be plenty of time for that much later.

     Peter’s skin began to crawl, and he wondered just how far Neal would let the seduction play out before he put a stop to it. It never even occurred to Peter that Neal might play it to the hilt, especially with several pairs of ears listening to every sound in the room.

     It was Peter who first noted that the cadence in Neal’s voice was just a bit off. Minutes later, he actually began to slur his words, and his sentences trailed off before he finished them. He had yet to utter the panic phrase for assistance, even at the point when Barrington told Neal that perhaps it was time for that house tour, starting with the bedroom.

     “Come along, pretty one,” the host murmured in a silky tone. “It’s time for us to have a little fun.”

     There were indistinct sounds of movement and then some rustling. What was not indistinct, however, was the sound of something hitting flesh and Neal’s sudden yelp.

     “Go! Go! Go!” a panicked Peter urged his team. If there was ever a situation that fell under the auspices of exigent circumstances, this was it. When the SWAT team breached the door and finally located the bedroom, Peter was just steps behind them, seeing a tableau that he didn’t think he would ever be able to erase from his mind. Barrington stood over Neal, who appeared to be only semi-conscious on a massive king-sized bed covered by a rubber sheet. His informant’s shirt was open and his trousers unzipped while the sadist pondered the collection of sexual devices arrayed on a table beside him. Peter easily recognized whips, chains and massive dildos, but some of the other tools looked more like arcane medieval torture apparatus than sex toys.

     There was an ensuing scuffle with Barrington, and, in the process, a cut-crystal decanter of a bright green liqueur was smashed. Suddenly, the pungent aroma of mint filled the room. Unfortunately, the greater portion of the viscous, sticky liquid seemed to have landed on Neal, who remained in a state of oblivion on the bed. When Peter went to his side, he noticed the massive bruise already beginning to blossom on Neal’s right cheekbone. What was really disconcerting was the babbling that was coming from his CI. He didn’t appear to recognize Peter, and was totally uncoordinated when Peter tried to get him upright.

     “What did you give him, you bastard!” Peter screamed into Barrington face, but the guy was yelling just as loud, demanding his lawyer. Yeah, a lawyer was definitely in order because this scumbag was going to need a really good one as Peter’s trained eye took in the myriad of Monets and Renoirs in ornate frames that graced the walls. Peter ticked off at least five that were on the short list of stolen items on the FBI’s list. Who knew what additional treasures other rooms held in the rest of the apartment.

     “Get paramedics in here ASAP,” Peter told his second in command as he sat next to Neal and tried to get him to stay awake and focus. It seemed to be a losing battle.

     Medical help arrived within minutes, and a middle-aged paramedic began an assessment of his patient. “Phew….smells very minty in here,” he remarked as he took a blood pressure, checked pupils and listened to Neal’s chest.

     “Yeah,” Peter responded grimly. “I think it’s some sort of liqueur, most likely crème d menthe, that he got splattered with during a struggle.”

     “You know, I’ve seen it all doing this job, so I’m guessing some rich, self-entitled pervert decided that our boy here was supposed to be the aperitif before the main course,” he said as he cast a cynical eye at all of the paraphernalia arranged on the nearby table.

     “Something like that,” Peter mumbled.

     Neal seemed completely unfocussed and pliant through all of the procedures performed by the medic, only arousing to bat the EMT’s hands away when he attempted to probe a cheekbone that was now black and blue and swollen.

     “Easy, Buddy, just trying to help here. I need to feel if anything is broken,” the man crooned softly.

     “Let the man do his job, Neal,” Peter intoned, and Neal abruptly quieted.

     Finally, the medical professional sat back and rendered his conclusions. “Considering the circumstances and what I’m seeing around me, I’m thinking that this man was most likely dosed with Rohypnol. His confusion and lack of coordination would support that, but, on the positive side, his vital signs are all stable, and it doesn’t appear that his breathing is depressed. He seems to be in no imminent danger, at least now that you got the dude who doped him. He just needs to sleep it off in a safe environment. However, he should not be left alone, just as a precaution in case he gets sick. He could aspirate. That does happen, unfortunately, more often than you think.”

     Peter let out a breath that he didn’t know that he was holding. “I’ll stay with him when I get him home,” he promised.

     Getting Neal home was a challenge, with the first leg of the journey becoming a group effort to get him into Peter’s car. A few brawny members of his team pretty much dragged his seemingly boneless CI out to the curb, and literally poured him into the passenger seat. Peter made sure that the seatbelt was secure before they sped off to Riverside Drive. Traffic was heavy in the city tonight, so it was slow going. Neal was quiet with his eyes closed and his head resting against the passenger window.

     “Are you still with me, Neal?” Peter asked anxiously.

     “Course I am,” Neal responded with a sigh. “Right here in the seat nex’ to ya. Jus’ keepin’ my eyes closed ‘cause all this stoppin’ n startin’ yer doin’ is makin’ me dizzy.”

     Peter didn’t have an answer for that. After a few more lights, he cracked his window a bit to let in some fresh air. “Riding with you is like having an air freshener on steroids in my car.”

     Neal just snorted and began humming some little tune that Peter couldn’t place.

     Eventually, June’s mansion loomed into sight, and Peter knew that climbing those stairs to Neal’s loft was going to resemble a trek to Mt. Everest with no Sherpa to help. Indeed, their ascent was slow and methodical—one step at a time—and there were a lot of steps! Neal clung to Peter like a limpet, and that did not make things any easier. Finally, Peter managed to fumble open the door handle to the loft, and mostly dragged Neal inside to deposit him on the bed. The young man fell onto his back and sighed loudly.

     “Oh no, Buddy,” Peter began. “You can’t sleep on your back in case you get sick.” He rounded the bed and began to tug and pull his CI onto his side, but in grasping his clothes, he realized that Neal was still covered in the remnants of the green liqueur. By now, it had dried, which made Neal’s shirt and pants stiff and brittle, not to mention shedding little green flakes with every movement.

     Taking a deep breath, he bravely announced, “We have to get you out of these clothes, Neal.”

     Neal just giggled—the conman actually giggled—and that unnerved Peter even more. After much pulling and tugging, with absolutely no help from the prone man, Peter had finally managed to strip his charge down to nothing more than black briefs. Now his plan was to search for sweats or sleepwear. Neal had to have something in this place besides designer suits. But before he could even move, Neal suddenly grabbed his arm to keep him in place.

    “Ya took all my clothes off, Peter. Ya jus’ can’t _do_ that and leave!” Neal sounded like a petulant child, but the grip that he had on Peter’s arm didn’t loosen.

     Peter tried his best to sound reasonable. “I need you to let go so that I can find other, more comfortable clothes for you to put on, Neal. _Now!”_ was added for emphasis.

     “Don’t need clothes!” Neal was just as adamant. Without warning, he pulled Peter off balance, which then sent him tumbling onto the bed atop Neal.

     “ _Deja vous! Deja vous_!” Peter’s mind was flashing like a neon strobe.

      Only the last time that he had “ _Been there, done that_ ,” the roles were reversed. This time, Peter was clothed and Neal was, well not completely naked, but close enough. And Peter, as before, was again on top of the young man.

     Even under the influence of drugs, Neal’s fingers were still slyly nimble as buttons opened on Peter’s shirt, and the fly on his trousers slid down. Like a starving man, Neal sought Peter’s lips and kissed him deeply and erotically, as his urgent erection ground into the agent’s matching one.

     With a last ditch effort, Peter managed to pull away. He gently took Neal’s battered face in his hands and whispered softly, “Neal, we can’t do this.”

     The dismayed sorrow that he saw in those piercing blue eyes was almost Peter’s undoing. However, it was what the suddenly more lucid young man said that pushed Peter closer to that slippery slope. Rohypnol had seemingly lowered all of Neal’s inhibitions, and the truth came tumbling out.

     “I know that you don’t want me, Peter. Maybe you never did. But couldn’t you just pretend for a little while? Please, just touch me, hold me, and make me feel safe. I know it won’t be real, but I can pretend, too.”

     It was at that moment that Neal’s keeper realized that his usually perceptive CI had absolutely no idea how much Peter loved him. Over the years, he had watched this young man lose so much and have his hopes dashed time and again. Yet he valiantly hid it all behind a brave façade and just kept going. Pretending had become a way of life for him so that he could survive. It was time for the truth.

     Peter slowly pulled away just long enough to divest himself of his clothes. Somewhere along the way, Neal had managed to remove his own briefs as well. Peter then lay down beside Neal and pulled him close while letting his hands run up and down the conman’s back. Neal shivered, and moved closer so that his face was nestled in Peter’s neck.

     “This is real, Neal, no more pretending. If we’re doing this, then we’re both all in,” Peter whispered.

     What followed felt genuine and almost inevitable. There was no clumsy groping. The pair’s movements seemed choreographed and sensual, with each man carefully exploring the topography of the other’s body. The kisses they shared foretold desperate desire and tantalizing promise. When Peter’s fingers delved into Neal’s recesses, the young man moaned and writhed with exquisite pleasure. Eventually, he pulled away momentarily to retrieve both condoms and lubricant from the night table.

     Both were sublimely aroused and panting, and Neal’s fingers shook when he rolled a sheath over Peter. Then he gracefully mounted the agent, a man with so much power over him, and who had held him in check for years. When Peter slowly slipped inside, Neal proceeded to ride him with a fervor matched only by Peter’s efforts to parallel his momentum. Neal came first with a shout; Peter felt the man’s body go tense for a beat as his climax overwhelmed him. Peter quickly twisted Neal to the side and, with persistent, deep thrusts, reached his own point of no return.

     It took a while for the universe to right itself again. Both men were drenched with sweat and thoroughly spent, but after he got his breath back, Peter managed to murmur quite seriously, “ _That_ was not pretending, Neal!”

     Some time later, they came together once more—gently this time, without the fevered urgency. It was sweet and fulfilling and felt so right. Eventually, Peter contented himself just watching Neal, who had fallen into a loose-limbed, peaceful sleep, his breath wafting across Peter’s chest. As the first streaks of dawn appeared outside the patio doors of the loft, Peter heard the room handle turn quietly. Damn! He had forgotten that Neal had no locks on his doors.

     Peter’s eyes widened as he saw Elizabeth poke her head in cautiously. Instead of a scandalized look of outrage, her features softened, and a small smile tugged at the corners of her mouth. She quietly tiptoed in, tugged off her jeans and t-shirt, and slipped in to bracket Neal on his other side. Her fingers began to softly card through his tousled, dark hair, all the while holding her husband’s gaze. Peter knew in that instant that somehow, someway, they were going to make this work!

     


End file.
